Classic Poem

I know a caravanserie
For bird and butterfly and bee,
And many a merchant, trafficking—
O, swift of foot! O, strong of wing!—
Comes seeking treasure fine and rare
And finds his heart's desire there.

Are there no gardens sweet with Spring
For souls that go adventuring?
Must I stay close in hive or nest
While blossoms call me east and west?
My feet are caught in common things,
Entangled, but my soul has wings.

It may be that a miser hides
His garden with a wall and bides
Among his singing flowers and tries
To hush their wooing melodies.
His labor is in vain, for I
Will hear as I come flying by.

No one may clip my wings, nor set
For my destruction any net.
I fly above the storms and reach
The cherry and the blossoming peach.
The four winds are my friends and bring
Me word of roses opening.

And every garden is to me
A pleasant caravanserie.
There is no beauty anywhere
I may not visit if I dare.
I spread my wings and will not hear
The wingless folk who counsel fear.

And you who see me daily go
In narrow ways and small and slow,
I bring you word of Arcady
And far Cathay. A vagrancy
Of spirit is my freedom. Why
Should I lie low when I can fly?